Authors: Karen Brooks
I FELT HIM COMING
.
I waited. In my small attic-room at the top of the house – the one place I could almost call my own. Here I had a mattress to sleep on, a light when I needed it, the opportunity for fresh air and even some company.
My few possessions were stored in an old wooden chest with the smell of the sea and a broken-lock lid. In there I kept a tiny sliver of myrtle wax. Green in colour and oozing a curious but pleasing smell, it was given to me by Pillar, years ago, as a reward for completing my first broach. I remember how proud I'd been when Quinn carefully placed my candles on the shop shelves and how thrilled I'd felt when, within hours, they'd all sold. Even Quinn had been happy with me that day.
Beside the wax, I had a small tinder box and a few rush lights that Pillar gave me so I wouldn't spend my nights in the dark. Not that I minded, not when I could so easily climb up to the roof garden and gaze at the stars. I also had a piece of parchment that I found in the canal the day I went with Pillar to the Chandlers Quartiere to pick up an order of beef tallow.
In an act of sheer rashness, Pillar had ordered the gondolier to row into the Dorsoduro Sestiere, to the outskirts of the Tanners Quartiere. It was the first time I'd ever been on the Circolo Canal. I couldn't believe all the traffic on the water. All the noise. Keeping my hat pulled down even lower than usual, I remember my eyes darting here and there as I'd tried to soak up all the colour and sounds. People were strolling along, talking, singing and shouting. Others peered out of windows, chatting with neighbours, hailing someone in a nearby calle. Some stood on the fondamenta, so close to the water they appeared about to step on to it, waving to vendors to row their gondolas laden with flowers and fruit and other produce closer. Children skipped across bridges, dogs barked at fluttering ribbons and flags; gondolas floated out of water gates into the main traffic. They were the most exciting scenes I'd ever witnessed.
It was only after we'd turned around and were heading back towards our own quiet backwater that I found my treasure. It was floating on the murky surface, not far from the Butchers Quartiere, when I plucked it out. Covered in strange marks, it had a picture in the middle. I tucked it under my cap and later, when I'd retreated to my attic, I flattened and dried it. I often looked at it. It was very pretty, even though it had been damaged by the water. Sandy in colour, it had crimson whorls in the margins and tiny remnants of gold scattered across the centre. Parts of it were blue and others jade. As I couldn't read then, it was years later that I discovered it was a poster and the marks were writing. I took other pleasures from its secrets, determined that one day I would uncover them.
The parchment was my most precious item. Not even Pillar knew I had it. I kept it under the loose bit of wood at the base of the chest over which sat my spare apron and my other shirt and a pair of leggings.
Next to the chest was my bed – an old mattress left in a nearby calle. Pillar had retrieved it and stuffed it with a bit more straw and even a little down he'd found on a roadside on one of those rare trips to Jinoa. I had a couple of old blankets as well, but even with them over me, I was often cold.
The attic was damp and draughty, but I was used to it. In the corner opposite my bed were a few boxes and barrels. Once they had stored flour, grain and salt. Now they were empty, except for the skinny rats that I knew sometimes hid in there. I didn't mind them so much. They weren't afraid to look at me.
Once, when I heard them scurrying around inside, I had lit my rush light. It took them a while to come out again and, when they saw me, they darted away. But they returned. They always did – two of them. Perched on the edge of the barrel, they stared at me with their little red eyes. I slept well when the rats visited me.
Tonight, I knew, I would not sleep well. After Quinn had lost her temper over the ruined candles, I came to the attic. I knew to stay here until my wounds from the beating healed – until Quinn decided I could join her and Pillar again. I wondered how long it would be this time.
Quinn hadn't always been like this. When I was younger, she would often talk to me. Mostly it was because she was lonely, but I would listen. She told me things about her husband, Santo. Her voice would grow shrill, tight. But under her sharp words, I could hear the confusion that kept him in her thoughts and fanned her passion. I often wondered about that, how a woman could both love and loathe the same person simultaneously. Everything Quinn did now, in the present, was based on what Santo had said and done in the past.
I found myself reflecting upon the power of men who, even in their absence, could wield such control. While I did not really understand how it could happen, not when Quinn appeared so strong, I was curious to discover if it was something I would ever experience. I fervently hoped not. I feared what it signified – what it could do. I felt sorry for Quinn. Not at first; that came later, when she started hitting me.
Then, just over a year ago, everything changed. It wasn't only that Quinn's occasional slaps and pinches became frequent beatings or that Pillar's anxiety grew and he retreated within himself. It was something
inside
me.
I know Quinn thought I could control it; that whatever was happening lay within my power. It didn't. Whenever I closed myself off from my surroundings and started to search within for something to sustain me – anything to block out the pain of failure, or even remember a small triumph – whatever I was touching began to alter. I could feel it, taste it sometimes, too. Elements of the wax or wick, or even the broach, mingled with parts of
me.
It was as if bits and pieces of them started to bleed into me, became part of who I am. It's only when it became too much, when I couldn't take any more inside myself, I pushed it out, released it – anything to escape its suffocating hold. I couldn't control it. I really couldn't.
I had already been in the attic for a few hours – I'd got up off my bed because the feel of the straw against my cuts and scratches had become intolerable. I lay instead on the cold wooden floor. It soothed my aches, helped me to control the sharp pain that ran from the back of my eye through to the base of my neck. But Pillar's despair still lingered in the wood from the last time he came to the attic. I deliberately cleared my mind. It hurt to think.
And that was how, hours later, I knew Pillar was coming. I'd heard muffled voices. Some words were very clear, others not. Then there was a long period of silence before Pillar made his way up the stairs. He tried so hard not to be heard, not to be caught by Quinn.
Pillar's movements were slow and steady as he cautiously distributed his weight on the stairs. I listened for any other sounds, but there were only distant, guttural snores. Quinn would not know about this visit but, like all the others he paid me after his mother lost her temper, she would probably guess. And say nothing. It was her way of condoning what he did without appearing to approve.
When the door opened, I tried to lift my head, but the blood on my cheek had dried and I was momentarily stuck. I sat up carefully, but I reopened the wound and blood flowed again. I cried out. Pillar was by my side in seconds.
In the dark, I could smell the lavender he'd placed in the bowl and the hot water infused with turmeric root in the mug he'd brought. Pillar thought this was something else he had managed to slip by his mother – the herbs. But I knew better.
'Tallow –' he began and then paused. I knew he was wrestling with his conscience.
'It's all right, Pillar.' I hated that he always wanted to apologise. He who suffered in ways I would never understand. He pushed the mug into my hands and I drank carefully. My lips had been split and I'd bitten my tongue so many times it was swollen and awkward in my mouth.
I heard him lift the lid on the chest and then the sound of flint striking tinder, and watched as the flame on the wooden spill I used touched the tip of an old wick. The rush light smoked as he placed it in the small grease-smeared holder above my bed. It was one he'd made. Pillar never wasted my rush lights on the family. The light it cast was modest, but adequate.
Pillar's pale, watery eyes met mine for a second, and in that fleeting look, I saw years of regret – regret that he had found me, regret that he had insisted on indenturing me and regret that he couldn't stop what was happening.
'Tallow ...' he tried again, the cloth to clean my wounds scrunched in his large hands.
'It's all right, Pillar,' I reached out to hold him; then I remembered that was forbidden to me and let my hand drop.
I must not touch, I must not look.
'No, damn it. It's not,' he said. It was then, with his eyes on my torn cheek and swollen lips, the cloth dabbing ever so gently, that he began to cry.
It was always like this when Quinn hit me.
He took a deep breath. 'I am weak. No, Tallow.' He held up his hand as if to ward off my protests, the stained fabric hanging from his fingers, a defeated flag. 'Don't try to tell me otherwise. I know what I am. I am weak to let her treat you like she does. I am weak not to have the courage to sell your fine candles –'
'Fine?' I couldn't help it. The word tripped out of my mouth. How could he call my recent creations fine? He always melted them and then destroyed the wax. Not one of my efforts remained.
It was then Pillar looked at me. He smiled, the flickering light reflected in his eyes. 'Yes, Tallow. Your candles are among the finest I have ever seen. Over the years, you have become very good at what we do – better than I could ever hope to be. But your work of late ...' He paused and looked over his shoulder, as if afraid Quinn might suddenly appear. He lowered his voice. 'Your work should be celebrated, not hidden or destroyed. It's the work of a master.
'Everything you've produced this season has been perfectly shaped, perfectly coloured, and today you mastered the most difficult wax of all. Your work is –' He fumbled for the right word. 'Exquisite.' He smiled again and, I couldn't help it, I smiled in return. In my heart, I'd known my candles were good.
The smile left my face as swiftly as it had appeared. 'But they are no use to you. You cannot sell them.'
'No, that is true. If we did, we'd all be in great danger.'
'Why, Pillar?' My chest felt hollow. 'You tell me my candles are fine and that they should be celebrated, but all you do is melt them and now you tell me they're dangerous. Why?'
Pillar gestured for me to drink. I did as I was told and waited. He started daubing my face again. I knew that whatever was wrong with me and my candles was connected, I just didn't quite understand how. As Pillar knelt before me, conflicted and sad, I knew I had to have it explained, have my doubts and concerns either assuaged or confirmed. I swallowed hard. This could not continue.
I had to have answers, now, tonight. The silence and evasions – the beatings – had gone on long enough.
'What am I, Pillar? You have to tell me.'
Pillar shook his head. 'I don't know what you mean.'
'Yes, you do,' I corrected him. I moved my head so he had to stop his attentions. 'It's why Quinn hits me ... and why you let her.' Pillar winced. I pressed my advantage. I had to, despite the hurt I knew it was causing him. 'I am not like you, am I? It's why my candles make you, Quinn and others feel and act the way you do, isn't it? It's why Quinn says I'm a threat.' I lowered my voice. 'What's
wrong
with me?' When he didn't immediately answer, I summoned my courage and asked the question I'd been longing to ask. The one that I'd buried deep within me and which now struggled to be released. 'What's an Estrattore?'
The look on Pillar's face made me inhale sharply.
'Where did you hear that word?' His eyes flickered towards the door. He rose to his feet, throwing the cloth that he'd been using to the floor. 'You are never to use it again, do you hear? Never!' He began to pace the room, rubbing his chin and muttering to himself.
'Why not? Tell me why I can't,' I pleaded. 'What does it mean?'
Pillar paused mid-stride and looked at me. I could feel his vexation and anxiety. What had I said? Why was he so ... so mad at me? No, not mad. It wasn't anger I sensed, but fear. I hardly dared breathe.
He stared at me for a long time. I didn't move. I'd never known Pillar to act like this before. Tears of sheer frustration slowly trickled down my bruised cheeks. I had to know. Somehow, I had to understand what I was, what it was about me that made Quinn and Pillar so afraid.
The first time I'd ever heard the word, something within me had responded. At first I'd believed it was because of its musical sound –
Estrattore –
but as I'd turned the word over and over in my heart and mind, I'd realised the name was important, not just as a relic from the past, but here, now ... to me.
Silence filled the room. Pillar was not going to tell me; his refusal shouted out at me. His glance bounced from me to the door and back again, over and over, his train of thought as clear as if he'd spoken. A tiny knot of resolve formed in my heart.
I would get my answer.
I waited until he'd sat back down and picked up the cloth, ready to return to his ministrations. I leant towards him and, keeping my head down, whispered, 'If
you
won't tell me, I'll ask Quinn.'
It was the cruellest thing I'd ever done. His initial fear transformed into a distress so strong it enveloped me. He raised the cloth between us, a tiny, dripping barrier, a shield against my threat. 'You won't. You mustn't.' Around the cloth, his knuckles turned white.
'I will if I have to,' I insisted, glimpsing over his shoulder towards the door. Unbeknownst to her, Quinn had taught me well. I could be stubborn, too; pitiless even.
We sat motionless. Pillar's breathing was heavy and fast. I could tell he was thinking about what to do, what to say. His shoulders slumped and the tension between us wavered. With slow deliberation he wrung out the cloth, placed it on the chest and let out a great sigh. Before I could move, he reached out and cupped my face in his hands. The rough texture of his palms and fingertips against my cheeks were coarse and unfamiliar. His skin had never met mine, not that I could recall in all these years. I could smell smoke, tobacco, a mixture of render, beeswax and the acrid smell of urine and sweat. He drew me closer to him until our faces were just inches apart. Unable to resist, I risked a glimpse. His eyes were shut.